


in dreams

by Anonymous



Category: Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Bad Sex, Brother/Brother Incest, Drunk Sex, M/M, Sibling Incest, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Thorgil is forced to deal with his brother's mistakes.
Relationships: Thorgil/Olmar (Vinland Saga)
Kudos: 2
Collections: Anonymous





	in dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to refine Thorgil's perspective by writing him in different stages of life.
> 
> @ vincestsaga on twitter for more brocontent ✌️
> 
> Further content warnings: Thorgil himself is also tipsy, but there are consent issues due to slightly differing levels of intoxication.

It's a mistake, letting himself drift too far south in Jutland. Too many chances that could happen. And one of them does. Thorgil goes to a big town. Olmar goes to the same big town, on very different business. They haven't changed so much that they can pass each other without noticing.

After a double take from Olmar, he hesitates and then keeps moving like he didn't see anything. Thorgil keeps moving, too. But they're both at the most popular lodging house that night, the one with the biggest crowd and the most chance to run into someone, and Thorgil doesn't think it surprises Olmar, either. Maybe something in both of them wants to find out who was right.

They sit outside at the same table as evening falls, and size each other up. Up close Olmar looks more like Thorgil than he used to. Without the scars, of course. And even with them they'd never be twins. But there's a resemblance, at least, to what Thorgil used to see when he looked in a mirror. And soft life on the farm has Olmar started on a gut just like their dad used to have. Or still has, maybe. Thorgil's never cared to check.

Dad's dead. The farm's still a farm. Nothing Thorgil couldn't have guessed. There are kids. Olmar tells him their names even though he didn’t ask and won’t remember.

"What about you?"

Thorgil looks at him, uncomprehending.

"Any wife? Kids?"

"Why bother?" Thorgil says. "They might end up like you."

"You could come home," Olmar says after a pause, his fingers drumming the drinking horn nervously. "Any time. I never asked you to leave."

It's not something he wants to be saying. It's an obligation. And Thorgil's fine with that. But he won't let his brother have the vindication of a cruel answer. "I am home," he says, instead of the truth they both know, which is that home for Thorgil is nowhere Olmar is.

When he reaches down to brush something off his leg and finds it's Olmar's hand, he pushes it off with a snarl. Olmar's lucky not to get his arm snapped, it's such an instinctive reaction. " _Fuck_ you think you're doing?"

"Please," Olmar says, not looking at him. "Just to remember."

He's drunk, and he's never been that bright. It shouldn't be any surprise he's fallen this far. Finding new ways to fuck up is Olmar's only talent. He can't even go out and find some creepy stranger to fuck him in a strange bed, like a normal freak. No, his choice for the night has to be the only brother he has in the world, on the one night in a decade they'll be sleeping under the same roof.

So, fine. Let him fuck himself over for once, with no one there to cushion the blow. They both know this is their last meeting. Let him _remember_ this.

"Well," Thorgil says. "If you put it like that."

In the back of the lodging house, behind the wide open room full of skins and a few benches for the real high rollers, there are a pair of small rooms. For those delicate travelers in need of privacy while they sleep. One of the landlord's slaves stands in front of them, keeping an eye out for fights as men trickle inside heavy with dinner and booze, or with dinner and resentment of those with the budget for booze. He doesn't ask much for entrance to one of the back rooms. They're not meant to be slept in long.

Thorgil watches from the front as Olmar pays the slave way too much. His expectations are either too high, or too low. Or else he's drunker than he looks. After a few minutes he makes his way to the back himself, intending to make for the other room and only slip into the first one at the last second. But the man waves him past without taking his money.

Typical. Thorgil slams into the room without bothering to feint, almost spilling the bottle he’s been nursing. "I told you I didn’t want your fucking money."

Olmar’s sitting on the edge of a pile of blankets, staring at the wall. He looks up and blinks like he didn’t expect to see Thorgil in here. "I just thought, 'cuz I asked. You can pay me back, f'you want."

"Yeah? Or how 'bout you pay _me_." Thorgil shuts the door behind him and drops booze and belt to the ground with only the barest awareness that the lodge will want its bottle back in good condition. He’s finally in the right mood to pull this off.

His brother, a grown man in his thirties, puts up no resistance, makes no attempt to pull his own cock out and be master of the situation. He lies back and lets Thorgil hold him down on the filthy blankets. Like everything else in his spoiled life, he just waits to take what’s given to him.

Nothing about it is as difficult as it should be. Maybe it’s the years apart, or maybe he should’ve spent more time with Olmar when he was a kid. Or maybe people just tell each other how hard this is supposed to be so no one will try it. Either way, no childhood memories are springing to mind now. All Thorgil sees is a man he needs to humiliate.

At the last second, he goes in between Olmar’s thighs instead of fucking him outright. He’s not in the mood to break him in, and he’s not in the habit of being gentle. There’s enough rubbing between them to make it work.

It's good news for Olmar's wife, at least, that he clearly has no idea what he's doing. He grabs back like he's the one doing the fucking, and he squeezes his thighs so tight on Thorgil's cock that Thorgil has to pry them back open by force. Partway through he starts crying, a pathetic sniveling sound that sets Thorgil's teeth on edge. He shoves a hand over his brother's face to make it stop and feels the tears and snot start to run down his palm.

Not an unfamiliar feeling, but there's blood too, usually. And the crying doesn't last for long. Not if he's gotten this close.

Thorgil moves his hand away, furious at himself for not wanting to think about that right now. He always hated that fucking sound, ever since Olmar was a tiny little brat, and ten years apart hasn't made it any more fun to listen to. It ought to be easy enough to think of making these the last moments of his brother's life.

"Sorry," Olmar says thickly. "I'b trying to ztop."

Children, actual children, are better at 'trying to stop' than Olmar, and they're easier to kill, too. Fuck, he hates that.

In the end he thinks about being angry. About the family name his brother ruined, even though Thorgil never wanted it in the first place. About every spineless follower on the farm who backed him up. About how he still _gives a shit_ that he doesn't understand why.

His little brother is a dead-end waste of time. A disgrace. Thorgil doesn't even want it known that they're related. But he came here, and he sat down and talked. For whatever earthly reason, he hoped Olmar would see sense. Apologize for something Thorgil doesn't even think about, these days. There is something between them that won't be severed. It stands to reason Olmar wouldn't have the wits or the strength to even try. That leaves Thorgil as the one who's tried and failed.

It's Olmar, every fucking time. He never fails except when his brother's involved. As if he's being punished for not coddling him, when every other force in the world seems hellbent on keeping precious little Olmar a pampered baby for the rest of his life. Thorgil comes mad and it doesn't make him feel better. It doesn't even make him angrier. And fucking his brother still isn't enough to rip him _out_.

Olmar squawks in his ear half a minute later, while he's still feeling empty and disgusted. It doesn't look like the earth exactly moved for him, but Thorgil doesn't ask.

"What the hell do you want to remember about this, anyway?" Thorgil looks around the tiny room they're hiding in. It must be the last place anybody around here wants to clean. The blankets especially. 

"I don't know. I miss you sometimes." Olmar gropes for a drinking horn that isn’t there. "Was I good?"

He wasn't. Thorgil just passes over the bottle he bought for himself. Not as fancy, but it must be ten times stronger than whatever Olmar was drinking from over dinner. It was the strongest thing available, and he paid for it out of his own pocket.

"Was I good enough?" Olmar asks again.

"Finish your drink," Thorgil tells him, tilting the bottle up to get him started. 

"I don't know," Olmar says to him, a few gulps in, leaning against him and drooling on his sleeve. "I don'no... what elshe you could want from me. If it's not that."

He goes down on the blankets as easy as he did the first time, and he's snoring right away. Thorgil tosses his pants on top of him just so he doesn't have to look. Not drunk enough to get sick in his sleep, that's the only point in his favor. 

"You dumb son of a bitch," Thorgil says to the room as he moves Olmar's hair out of his face. 

She must be dead by now, too, come to think of it.

Thorgil's never been stupid like his brother. He'd be long dead if he were. But he is stupid enough to leave town in the early hours of the morning, dropping some of his own hard-earned coin on the landlord so he'll keep Olmar drunk in the back for a day or two, and pretend he got sent there on his own to sleep it off. He never met anybody here tonight.

He sees the landlord's eyes travel to the money, counting it before he makes the decision, and doesn't ask which of them the man's mistaking for a whore. He'd probably have to kill him if he got an answer.

Olmar might get robbed or beaten if his bodyguards don't catch up with him, but that's none of Thorgil's business. He's had enough time to learn not to flash money around like he was doing last night. If he's determined not to learn, then Thorgil's done teaching. What he's doing right now isn't _for_ Olmar. He's just letting his brother have the space to convince himself it was a dream. He can do the work himself, for once in his life.


End file.
